A Matter of Hours
by CompanionWanderer
Summary: Prydain Chronicles, immediately post-series. Warning: contains every major spoiler for The High King. Taran explores his mixed emotions about the changes that have befallen him in the last several hours. Drama, humor, and loads of Taran/Eilonwy fluff.
1. Part One

_Okay, okay. You all know I'm a ridiculous sap when it comes to Taran/Eilonwy. I was bound to get to something like this sooner or later, but I did try to make it broader in scope, and I hope it doesn't disappoint in either capacity. _

_This was inspired by a re-reading of The High King, when I realized that, for a guy who was ready to propose on the spot at the beginning of the book, Taran sure took his sweet time getting around to it by the end, where between the journey home and Dallben's news about the Summer Country he had several carefree days, during which he postponed it for no (textually) apparent reason. If I were Eilonwy, I think I'd have slapped him right after saying yes. _

_But as I maneuvered around the topic, which I found mostly comedic, I was also musing on Taran's immediate emotions as the rest of his companions leave for the Summer Country and he's left with a kingdom on his hands...which was not at all comedic. The turbulence of such conflicting emotions was a difficult thing to balance, and I'm still not sure I did it well. But I'll leave it to the reader to decide._

_Thanks to adaon45 for her advice on this one!_

_Prydain and all its characters are the creation of Lloyd Alexander; may his spirit live on in the joy he has brought to so many._

**A Matter of Hours**

**Part One**

Bright sunlight blazed off white sails as they billowed outward, filling with fresh wind. Ropes tightened and strained; wood creaked under the stress of changed direction, and the air rang with the shouts of sailors and the crisp snap of unfurling canvas. The golden sun of the House of Don blazed against the black field of the pennant crowning the highest mast. It was a scene that normally would have made Taran's heart race with excitement, yet now he stood with a heavy spirit on the banks of the Great Avren, watching the faces clustered at the ship's railing – faces that would soon be out of reach forever.

His eyes lingered on each in turn. Dallben, the glitter in his eyes visible from this distance - the only outward sign of any emotion, since his expression was otherwise hidden in his windswept grey cloud of whiskers. Gwydion had his proud head thrown back, joy mingled with sadness on his face as he raised a silent hand. Fflewddur, gallantly attempting gaiety, was whooping and waving. Of Gurgi Taran saw mainly a red circle rimmed with teeth as the creature wailed his misery at leaving his master.

"I wish he'd stop that," Eilonwy sighed next to him. "It's bad enough they're leaving at all, but to have Gurgi's howls be the last thing we hear of them! It's like your house burning down while you're out watering your fields."

Taran, with a wistful smile, tightened his arm around her waist as with the other he waved a final farewell. The golden ship began to move, gathering speed as its prow sliced the blue ribbon of the river. With impossible swiftness, the faces began to grow smaller, the voices lost in a confusion of noise. Eilonwy broke away and ran along the riverbank, waving; Taran followed her in a last impulsive gesture, a desperate attempt to prolong the sights and sounds of those he loved, to add just one more moment, one second…

It was over. The ship rounded a bend in the river and was lost in moments behind the forested banks, and Taran felt his heart swell as if to burst. Eilonwy stopped short, covering her face with her hands, and when he approached her she turned and threw herself into his arms, burying her sobs in his shoulder.

It seemed to Taran that they stood thus for endless moments, separated from the world by shared grief as though huddled on a small island in the midst of a howling storm, clinging to each other for warmth and support. Perhaps if he could hold her tightly enough, the ache in his heart might grow less, and in comforting her he would himself be comforted. Likely enough it was anything but the last time they would have such need of one another, he thought, watching his tears print dark circles on the shoulder of her gown, and buried his face in the waves of her hair.

Presently, sadness notwithstanding, he found himself staring at the place where her neck and shoulder met and fighting the impulse that suggested itself, which, tempting as it was, seemed inappropriate at the moment. Even had their embrace been a joyful one, he was acutely aware of the many pairs of eyes on them from the crowd that had gathered for the departure of the Sons of Don.

He wondered if it had been properly dignified of him to run after the ship…like a dog bidden to stay home chasing his master. Taran dismissed the thought with a grimace, annoyed by the plaguing notion that he might spend the rest of his life evaluating every action in light of how it would seem to his people.

How he could even think of such a thing at such a moment was a question that annoyed him even more. It never ceased to be amazing to him that in the midst of great trial and sorrow, when the very world ought to be turned on its head, one could still be distracted by insignificant details. Dallben, Fflewddur, Gwydion, Gurgi, and the rest of his lifelong companions were lost to him now, their faces etched in his mind next to Coll's, Annlaw's, Adaon's, and countless others…and yet he had the energy left for self-consciousness.

And for noticing how deliciously a woman's jawline melted into the hollow behind her ear…

Eilonwy stiffened suddenly, and disentangled herself from his arms with a little push. She was sniffling, and swiping at her remaining tears, but something in her arch glance and the corners of her mouth suggested she knew exactly what he'd been thinking. Her subsequent smile was watery and wistful. "There's one thing to be glad about," she said, taking his hand as they walked back to the small crowd gathered at the riverbank, "and it's that I'm standing here and not on that blasted ship, being carried away from you."

Taran squeezed her hand, with a pang that was an odd mix of pleasure and pain. "I am still not sure I should have let you stay," he murmured, half-aloud. "When I think of what you have given up—"

From the corner of his eye he saw the toss of her head, and could picture the exasperated expression that accompanied it. "Nothing I regret. You _let_ me, indeed. As if you could have stopped me!"

Taran chuckled, profoundly grateful. "Well...but Eilonwy, eternal life…"

"Without you," she broke in, "just so much time. Too much. Like a day that never ends, when you want to see the stars. Besides, Dallben said the Summer Country is where you find your heart's desire. How was I supposed to do that, with _my_ heart's desire suddenly having an attack of noble obligation and staying behind?"

She elbowed him playfully in the ribs, but Taran understood the sincerity in her words and was comforted. After all, it was impossible to be completely given up to grief on your wedding day…even if encumbered by the sudden, unexpected, and undesired weight of a kingdom.

He didn't particularly want to think about that at the moment, yet it was inescapable. The very people who now crowded around them, hailing them with friendly respect if not reverence – thank Belin, not reverence yet, he didn't think he could bear that – brought the fact continuously before him. Many of them were those he called friend, and he found it embarrassing to see their bows to him, halting and awkward as though such unnatural formality embarrassed them as well.

As he and Eilonwy mounted their horses and turned back in the direction of Caer Dallben, those others who had ridden formed something of a procession behind. One of the Commot youths, overcome with high spirits, galloped ahead, calling back that he would announce their return, and the High King turned to his Queen with a grimace. She shrugged at him, a rueful smile playing at her lips. "Might as well get used to it, you know. It'll be this way from now on."

"You mean no privacy? Wonderful," he muttered, wondering if their retirement together that evening would be heralded with the same inconvenient enthusiasm, and felt his ears grow hot. He flicked the ends of his reins in her direction. "You know, you're supposed to be encouraging."

Eilonwy laughed, a sound that drowned all others from his ears. "Just think – you'll never be in danger of having no one around to scratch where you can't reach."

He snorted. "Is that an official court position? Royal back-scratcher?"

"You could make it one," she suggested gaily, nudging Lluagor into a canter and darting ahead of him on the road. Taran laughed in spite of himself as he watched her, the sunlight streaming off her blazing hair making him momentarily forget that he was King. Melynlas tossed his head and pulled at the bit.

"I know," Taran murmured to the stallion. "Quite irresistible, isn't it? I daresay she knows it, too. Very well, then, go on." He loosened the reins and tightened his knees as the horse sprang forward in pursuit, and felt his heart lighten in the exhilaration of motion and speed as trees and brush began to fly past. There was a hubbub of excitement from behind him as many of the other riders joined in the race, apparently having appointed themselves a sort of unofficial honor guard. Crowds of Commot folk and cantrev nobles encamped in the surrounding fields shouted and waved as they swept past.

Melynlas was the swifter of the beasts, but Taran checked him as he came nose-to-flank with Lluagor. To win a race to Caer Dallben might be the stallion's aim, but his master had other intentions. Eilonwy turned in the saddle, saw him, and bent low over Lluagor's neck as she urged the horse to greater speed. Her silvery laughter drew him on until they rounded the last greening hill into the fields of Caer Dallben and reined up, flushed and windblown.

Eilonwy whirled Lluagor around so abruptly that Taran nearly collided with them, and Melynlas rose onto his hind legs, snorting. "You _let_ me win," she accused him breathlessly, with an indignation obviously feigned; her eyes were merry.

"If you thought I would take more pleasure in winning than watching you," Taran said, grinning at her, "you were mistaken. But I don't believe you really thought that."

Her scarlet cheeks confirmed it, but her gaze darted to something beyond him and her smile faded into an expression of polite attentiveness that she must have learned on Mona; it nearly succeeded in masking her annoyance. From behind him a man's voice called, "My Lord King."

"He's talking to _you_," Eilonwy reminded him in an undertone, as he caught himself looking around to see who was being addressed. With an unpleasant mental jolt he turned to see one of Smoit's men approaching on foot through the handful of folk congregating. The warrior bowed low…and remained so, longer than seemed necessary. Taran squirmed in the saddle. Eilonwy nudged Lluagor closer to him and leaned over to whisper, "You have to give him permission to rise."

"Belin," he muttered, and cleared his throat. "Erm…you may rise. What is it?"

The man straightened, a smirk pulling at his mouth that Taran chose to interpret as good humor rather than suppressed insolence. "King Smoit desires an audience at your convenience, my Lord."

Taran glanced at Eilonwy, who gave him half a disappointed smile and shrugged. "Your convenience is rarely to be truly convenient anymore, you know," she said lightly. "Strange how much can change in a matter of hours."

He sighed and turned to the waiting warrior. "Very well. Tell him we will come at once."

The man bowed again and retreated, and Taran found himself staring absently after, pondering Eilonwy's words. Strange, indeed, what changes the last hours had brought him.

Only the day before, he would have predicted himself among those now sailing on the Golden Ship, surrounded by his dearest friends with Eilonwy by his side, anticipating naught but everlasting joy in living free of burden or care. Twelve hours ago he had given up hope of such happiness, foreseeing instead a mortal span of years filled with toil and hardship, mourning the absence of those he loved yet with the hope of doing as much good as lay within his limited power.

And now here he was, High King over the entire land. It was a position whose full ramifications he would take months, no doubt - perhaps years - to realize, though Taran knew enough to guess that one of the most serious difficulties would be getting the scattered people to recognize him as such. An Assistant Pig-Keeper turned King, not by succession, but by virtue of an obscure prophecy and the word of an old enchanter might expect some resistance from those who considered the claim a weak one. The squabbling cantrev lords of Prydain had rarely been united in their loyalties even in the best of times, and now the war-torn areas of the land were likely in near anarchy. The very thought filled him with weary despair, and he yearned for Dallben's wisdom or Gwydion's experience to bear him up. Even Fflewddur, lightly as he had taken his own kingly responsibilities, would have had at least some knowledge to give him.

There was the Book of Three, of course, and he trusted Dallben's faith in its wisdom. But a dusty old tome was cold comfort in comparison to the friendly counsel of those for whom his heart now seemed torn asunder. Taran had seen the deaths of enough beloved companions in his life to know that the piercing emptiness he felt at their absence would eventually subside into the dull, patient ache of fond memory, but it was a hard thing to lose so many at once. The thought that they sailed to life, not death, should have been balm on the wound; but the loss was no less bitter…though admitting that he felt so caused him fresh pain, that he could find so little room in his heart to rejoice in the fortune of his friends.

And yet, in the midst of sadness, there was much to look forward to with eagerness, and Taran knew also the power of work and activity at healing the heart. All the tasks he had set himself, which he had known to be insurmountable for one such as he, now lay within his influence, and the stores of ancient knowledge captured by Arawn were in his grasp. Caer Dathyl could rise again, its treasure-trove of lore and wisdom perhaps unearthed. The Red Fallows might bloom once more. The seawall on kingless Mona would be built, the razed Commots restored, the fields of Caer Dallben tended until they flourished. These things and many more were now in his power to do, or at least attempt.

And there was Eilonwy. He glanced to his side, where she held Lluagor to a dignified walk, and his spirit lightened. This very morning he had awoken with the heartbreaking knowledge that by the afternoon she would be lost to him forever. Yet now here she was beside him, their faithfulness to one another pledged only scant hours before. She had given up eternal life and ease to remain with him, and he wondered how he could ever have doubted how she would answer.

Not that he was entirely easy with her choice. He had been hard-pressed in Dallben's chamber to let her make it without interference from him. A strong sense of self-sacrifice, of wanting what was best for her over his own wishes, had almost made him shout out at her to stop and think, to consider well what she would forsake if she stayed. It was not only eternal life and the happiness of the Summer Country – by wishing her powers gone, it seemed to him she was severing part of herself, and the only tenuous tie to her lofty heritage. Even now Taran wondered if he would ever be comfortable with himself for being the cause, and the beneficiary, of such a sacrifice.

But even as part of him had thought these things, the rest of his mind, wild with desperate hope, had risen in opposition. When Eilonwy had slipped the cold weight of the Peledryn in his hand and murmured her farewell, with an expression only he had seen, his own resolve to stay had wavered for an instant. Always it was the moments he was most sure of losing her that made him realize how he needed her, and every precious memory of their lives together had rushed past him with heartbreaking finality.

Was it any wonder he had been silent?


	2. Part Two

**A Matter of Hours  
**

**Part Two**

Recollection had flitted past him like a dream…the kind which seems to encompass many days, and yet is found upon waking to have taken place in the heartbeats between first light and full sunrise. He had seen once again the blue eyes framed by a rusty grate; heard the silvery voice flinging down insults and compliments in the same tone, as though its owner did not know the difference. Images flashed quickly before his mind's eye; a sudden flare of light, a flash of silver from a crescent pendant, a sideways-quirked smile of amusement at his bewilderment. An anxious scowl as she clutched a black-sheathed sword away from his eager hands. A sweep of red-gold hair as she tossed her proud head. The terror in her eyes as he pulled her through bracken, a horned monster on their trail. Her quickly-veiled expression of unimaginable relief when he, alive against all odds, opened his eyes in a chamber in Caer Dathyl. Lips curled into a mysterious, self-satisfied smirk when he'd asked her to stay at Caer Dallben.

Eilonwy had not been at the little farm a fortnight before Taran had wondered how he had ever passed the time without her there, loath as he would have been to admit it to anyone. Satisfying as it was to have any companion his own age, she in particular seemed to belong. Her enthusiasm and energy had been a welcome stimulant to a life he had often found dull. Even her frequent explosions of temper, much as they often baffled him, had kept things interesting. He had sensed her subtle admiration of him and found it elating, pushing himself to seek ways of increasing it. Many had come back to haunt him, but her very exasperation at his blunders was somehow comforting; that she had expected better of him was complimentary, and it had challenged him to expect it of himself.

She had changed, too, under the influence of a wholesome life in which Coll's gentle wisdom and Dallben's compassionate guidance replaced the merciless tyranny of Achren. Over the years there were fewer outbursts, less sharp-tongued criticism, and her laughter lost the note of irony it had often borne. Her smile was softer, her sarcasm rarer, giving way to sincere expressions of joy. Somehow it had seemed to Taran that she brought light wherever she was, since the very moment her bauble had flooded his cell with golden warmth that fateful evening in Spiral Castle.

He had found himself confiding his hopes and dreams to her, unburdening his troubles, and discovering an ear at once sympathetic and pragmatic. Eilonwy allowed him to be neither overly idealistic nor cynical. Speaking with her sometimes calmed him, sometimes frustrated him, and sometimes, depending on her mood, confused him utterly. There were times when he understood her not at all, yet the mystery was intriguing. He wanted to understand. She seemed to understand him, often all too well.

And then Dallben's decree that Eilonwy be sent to her kin on Mona had fallen like a bolt of thunder from a blue sky, leaving a sudden cold dismay in Taran's heart, a tumult of turbulent emotions in his mind. The prospect of living at Caer Dallben with a gaping emptiness where Eilonwy should have been was an unthinkable thing. In a moment of pain-conceived clarity he had realized he loved her, but the knowledge brought him little joy, for he knew also how little he had to offer her. Nevertheless he had determined to speak to her something of what was in his heart. The least bit of encouragement from her would give him hope; a goal for which to strive, to prove himself worthy.

His efforts had been thwarted at every turn as surely as if fate itself was determined to separate them, in one vicious circumstance after another on Mona. A rivalry with a feckless Prince, whose affability made it impossible for Taran to detest him as he would have liked; the impotent anger and helplessness he had felt at knowing Eilonwy's life was in danger; the earth-shattering agony of her rejection of him while under Achren's spell; the terror of watching her tumble lifeless amid the flames at the foot of the dais of Caer Colur. His heart had been rent more times in the space of a few days than in the rest of his life together…and then one simple assurance from her, one unforgettable moment on the beach at Mona, had sealed it back together and sent him home with visions of the future dancing in his dazzled eyes.

Taran had kept that moment treasured in his heart in the years that followed, only laying it aside in one shameful season of despair spent in a shepherd's hut. His eager journey back to Caer Dallben, predicated upon Eilonwy's return there, had been made the lighter and swifter for the hope of his dream being so soon fulfilled. Yet once again had fate twisted a blade into his back, and the very day that brought him the joy of seeing her once more had tipped them all over the brink into war. Eilonwy had been a comfort and strength to him in that dark time, and Taran shuddered yet to think of the three nights and days she had been separated from the company, the events of which she still had not relayed to him in full.

Victory gained, they had returned in triumph and joy to Caer Dallben, and _still_ Taran had felt that his efforts to speak with Eilonwy could not have been thwarted more neatly. He began almost to suspect a deliberate conspiracy on the part of everyone he knew. It had taken a very awkward moment on the second evening of their homecoming to assure him that this was not, in fact, the case.

The day had been spent in feasting and revelry with various Commot folk and cantrev nobles who had begun to congregate. The spring nights still held enough briskness to make a fire welcome, and that evening saw many groups of companions settled around various bonfires that dotted the fallow fields. Snatches of song and pipe-music played in the air, and laughter rose from more than one quarter. Around the small blaze closest to the cottage, however, the conversation was subdued, with many a thoughtful silence. Taran, Eilonwy, Fflewddur, Doli, Glew and Gurgi surrounded it, Dallben having retired already and Gwydion having business elsewhere.

The mood was not a somber one, although a tinge of melancholy still lay over Taran. Every object and view at Caer Dallben had brought him fresh grief over Coll's death, and he had spent the previous day in mourning. Smoit's arrival had allayed it somewhat, for the bearlike King had a presence too merry and overpowering to resist. Now, gazing into the embers, he felt peaceful and content, surrounded by his friends, and aware of the warm weight of Eilonwy's head on his shoulder. She was curled next to him in a manner he found pleasantly distracting, but as the fire burned low she sat up and yawned.

"Ugh," she said, grimacing a little. "It's well that Smoit's sort of feasting is rare, isn't it? I feel like I've swallowed a stone. And the wine is sloshing about in my head. If I sit here a moment longer I'll never get up again." She glanced up at the star-strewn sky. "It's late anyway. I'm going in."

There was a chorus of murmured good-nights, and she hesitated at the edge of the firelight. "It feels a little odd, doesn't it? After so long in encampment."

Taran roused himself enough to ask, "What does?"

She tossed him an odd expression made up of equal parts exasperation, amusement, and something else he couldn't place, and answered tartly, "Sleeping alone."

She turned on her heel and left them before anyone could reply, and Taran watched her go with the feeling that he'd just had a brick thrown at his head. Across the fire he could see the dim white gleam of Doli's teeth as the stocky dwarf grinned, and from within the depths of Fflewddur's drawn-up hood came a low whistle.

"You walked into that, my lad, as clean as anything," the lanky bard declared. In the absence of his harp he had taken to pipe-smoking, and now fragrant puffs emerged from the hood. "Whatever can you be waiting for?"

Taran frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "What are you talking about?"

Doli snorted loudly, and Fflewddur pointed the long stem of his pipe in the direction Eilonwy had taken. "Asking that girl to marry you, of course," he said. "Great Belin, if I have to intercept another smoldering look between the two of you, I think I may burst into flame."

His face growing hot, Taran opened his mouth and closed it again, too embarrassed to speak. He felt suddenly as though every eye within range was fixed upon him, right down to the ember-like golden irises of that blasted giant cat curled behind Fflewddur's back.

"Numbskulls," Doli growled amiably. "It's like you humans, to dance around a thing like a bunch of wandering moths, never settling down to it. You've had plenty of time."

"Wasn't it what that infernal quest for your parentage was all about?" Fflewddur put in, puffing away. "And that was months ago now. Don't tell me you think she'd refuse just because you didn't find the answer you wanted."

Nettled beyond endurance, Taran threw up his hands. "Of course not. I mean, of course I'm going to ask her. It just…it hasn't seemed the right time." He glared at the bard and dwarf, united in their amusement at his expense. "Would _you_ ask a woman such a question in the middle of…all that has been happening?"

"Oh, if you were waiting for all to be peace and safety again, that I could understand," said Fflewddur, "but it's been nearly a week since we left Annuvin. We were four days just on the ship."

"Yes, precisely," Taran snapped, for it was a sore point. He had, as a matter of fact, been impatient to speak with Eilonwy during their return journey, but the ship had been crowded fore-to-aft, and the impossibility of catching her alone had driven him to despair. "On a ship where we were all rubbing elbows with one another the entire journey. I had planned to speak to her privately, if that meets with your approval." He folded his arms, sulking. "You two are hardly qualified to give advice. What do either of you know of such matters?"

"Nothing from experience, thankfully," Doli snorted. "The Fair Folk have no use for all this human romantic nonsense. But we observe enough."

Fflewddur cleared his throat. "Yes, well. I was a youth once, myself, you know, but there's no need to go into that. A Fflam has his honor." He knocked his pipe out into his palm. "All I say is I can see past the end of my own nose. And that," he admitted, "is saying something."

Glew, who had been engaged in cleaning the remaining shreds of meat from a bone, piped up. "When I was a giant"—

"Oh, Belin." Taran scrambled to his feet in outrage at this final indignity. "Enough. If I am to have no peace in your company tonight I shall seek it alone."

"Suit yourself," Fflewddur called after him as he strode away, adding something indistinct about more pleasant company for the asking if he'd get on with it. Taran grit his teeth, mentally attempting to salvage the shreds of his pride. How on earth had he even been roped into discussing the matter?

It wasn't for lack of intention that he hadn't spoken, after all. True, the previous day he had been sad and preoccupied, and had spent the majority of time wandering through the familiar groves and fields of Caer Dallben alone with his thoughts and memories. But Eilonwy had been ever at the back of his mind, and he had been glad to see her, in the late afternoon, walking through the orchard towards him. She had finally discarded her warrior's garb in favor of the more fitting garments brought from Mona; her freshly-groomed hair was loose to her waist. The result, as she passed under the budding apple trees, made him catch his breath.

But the moment was fleeting; no sooner had she come within speaking distance than a crowd of Commot children had come dashing through the orchard in some wild game, one falling headlong and wailing in pain over a twisted ankle. Taran had been obliged to carry the child back to a neighboring camp, there pressed to tarry and tell the tale of his finding of Dyrnwyn and the death of Arawn over and over again. Eilonwy had come with him, and toward evening they managed to break away. The moment they left the camp they were hailed by the just-arrived Smoit, who insisted on accompanying them all the way to the cottage, along with his honor guard.

From then on it had been merriment and song and fellowship, and during the feast the next day it seemed to Taran he could take no step without falling over some prone reveler, turn no corner without being called to another group of eager listeners to relate, once again, his part in the defeat of the legions of Annuvin. As flattering as it was, he longed more than ever for a return of the sleepy solitude the little farm normally afforded. It was evident he would be given no chance to speak his heart to Eilonwy until the gathered throng began to dissipate.

So now, to be so nettled by his friends over the delay only added to his frustration, though he was slightly mollified by their implicit confidence that she was only waiting for a word from him. He could not help feeling a little anxious. Certainly there were many moments when he was sure of her affection, but women were perplexing creatures, and Eilonwy perhaps most of all. It seemed presumptuous to assume her answer.

He considered going into the cottage, to speak with her if she were still awake, and glanced up at the little loft window under the eaves. A warm golden glow illuminated it, but even as he looked, it was extinguished. Taran sighed. The next day, then. No matter what.

Of course, the next day had come with Dallben's astonishing news about their voyage to the Summer Country, and in the whirlwind of the moment Taran had forgotten all his notions of proper proposals, pulling the Princess into an embrace and blurting out the first words that came to him in front of everyone. But she hadn't seemed to mind. Indeed, she had seemed to think him a bit daft for even needing to ask. As they had dispersed from Dallben's chamber Fflewddur had slapped him on the back.

"That wasn't so difficult, now, was it?" the lanky bard had asked, with a jovial grin.

He and Eilonwy had spent the afternoon walking among the familiar trees and stones of Caer Dallben for what they had thought would be the last time, and there had seemed far fewer intrusive visitors, or perhaps he simply hadn't noticed, for she turned out to have intriguing methods of capturing his attention. So intriguing, for that matter, that Taran had begun impatiently wondering why on earth he'd made their wedding contingent upon their arrival in the Summer Country, an untold number of days' journey away. When he admitted as much to her she giggled, but pointed out, with a characteristic practicality that made him blush, that there were no rooms at Caer Dallben with a bed big enough for two, so it was just as well.

All had seemed perfect, and for the day they had known nothing but joy. Yet it was something Eilonwy had said that evening which later disturbed his sleep, and led him down the path on which he now tread.

"It's not fair, is it?" she had sighed, as they stood together on a hill against the edge of the wood, looking down upon the flickering lights being kindled in the camps below. "Not right, somehow, that we should be so happy and fortunate. Going off where we'll have no more cares or troubles, while so many, who fought as hard, and lost more, maybe, must stay and try to patch themselves back together." Her blue eyes were troubled. "And without a proper leader, too. I wonder what will become of them all."

And Taran, sobered, had wondered it, too; had wondered so much that in spite of every desire of his heart he had chosen to stay and find out, and found himself somehow thrust into the very leadership for which she had seen the need. And then, heart pounding, he had watched Eilonwy stand with her hand on a Fair Folk ring, about to shrug off her enchantress lineage with as little thought as she would an ill-fitting garment, and he had allowed all his yearning for her overpower that corner of his mind that tried to call him selfish for doing so.

If she did not regret it, neither would he.

* * *

_hee hee...hee...ahem_

_That campfire scene was the first thing I thought of in this whole story. It may be terribly egotistical to delight in my own writing, but it still makes me giggle uncontrollably every time I read it over._


	3. Epilogue

**A Matter of Hours  
**

**Epilogue**

Taran came back to himself with a small start, gazing between Melynlas's ears, and realized Eilonwy had called him several times.

"You look like you've forgotten your own name," she said, with a sympathetic smile. "If I might suggest it, don't look so when you talk to Smoit. What are you thinking of?"

A loaded question, he thought ruefully. The past, present, and future. Great joy and great sadness intermingled, like the dark and light threads woven together in the tapestry of his life. The long, winding path that had turned an Assistant Pig-Keeper into a King. The faces he would never see again, sleeping beneath the earth or turned eastward toward an unearthly light. The silent stones of Caer Dathyl scattered on the bloodstained earth. The people they passed, gazing at him with mingled wonder, curiosity, doubt, and hope. The responsibilities he now bore, and what he'd be doing about them in twenty years, or ten months, or the next five hours.

And the young woman at his side, who had never seemed so radiant and alive. And…well, accessible. There was still that pressing problem about the beds at Caer Dallben. "Everything," Taran answered, finally, and then grinned. "But mostly you."

Eilonwy blushed, and glanced self-consciously around at the handful of people who accompanied them. "You ought to stick with one thing at a time," she admonished. "You'll get along much better."

"Very well," he said, sighing, "I'll begin with thinking of Smoit, and whether there can possibly be anything left of the food supply within another day of his sojourn here. That should take up a few minutes at least."

"And then you'll have to think of whatever it is he wants to speak about," she put in, "which could take hours."

Taran rubbed his chin. "After that, I shall think about stone quarries." At Eilonwy's quizzical look, he explained, "We're going to need a great deal for rebuilding." He tapped his leg. "Then I shall spend the rest of the day thinking of…horses and cows and pigs, and how many there are of each in the camps." He cast her a sidelong glance; she was beginning to look slightly put out. "Then perhaps this evening I'll find time to look over all those parchments rescued from Annuvin," he added, trying not to laugh, "and spend a few hours thinking about agriculture and irrigation canals."

"Hmph," Eilonwy said, tossing her head, her eyes glittering. "I hope you'll enjoy that."

"I'm sure it will be terribly interesting," Taran replied, with a wicked grin. "But I suppose I'll have to lay them aside at some point tonight, and think about…oh…embroidery."

A shower of dirt and pebbles hastily scraped from an overhanging embankment pelted him about the ears. "Embroidery!" Eilonwy exclaimed, the laughter in her voice barely held in check by indignation. Once again she muscled Lluagor ahead of him, putting her heels to the horse's flanks. Her voice floated back to him. "Taran of Caer Dallben, I'm not speaking to you!"

The High King laughed. Many things could change in a few hours, indeed.

But some things never would.


End file.
